


Triptych

by shara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Annoyed Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), PWP without Porn, Tarot, after canon, i'm not selling this very well, literally there is barely any plot, more like a series of scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shara/pseuds/shara
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley were made differently.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 96





	Triptych

It wasn't as though Aziraphale forgot that Crowley was a demon—not exactly. There was something in each of their biologies (if it can be called that) that would always feel gently opposed to the other's. And one did not easily forget the War against Heaven, even if one has lived through 6000 years since. But Aziraphale had encountered other demons, or at least the messes left behind by them, and had never managed to imagine Crowley expressing the same depths of cruelty. Crowley had always been there to reassure him when he felt anxious, to bring him his favorite types of chocolates, and to share drinks and meals and evenings with him. And apart from the light whiff of myrrh and firewood that lingered around him when Aziraphale happened to notice, he might easily forget that Crowley was any different from him at all.

So he truly didn't understand what happened at first when Crowley hissed and jumped back while trying to follow Aziraphale into Anathema's cottage.

"Mind the thorns on the roses, my dear," Aziraphale said, turning to look at him. He had almost put his hand on the column of the portico himself, before noticing the thorns.

But Crowley was staring at him with an odd look on his face. "I can't go in there," he said. He was rubbing his left hand like it had been burned.

"What? Why not?" Aziraphale said, walking back out to him. "Let me see."

He took Crowley's left hand to look at it. The tips of Crowley's fingers where he'd reached out to the column were turning red and angry. Aziraphale stared, baffled. No ordinary chemistry could have burned Crowley. He turned back to look at the columns but they looked perfectly normal, white paint slightly peeling, with vines curving up behind the hanging baskets of pink flowers. Crowley frowned past him at the door and the dark hallway beyond. Anathema had already gone inside, having opened the door to let them in. Aziraphale turned back and ran his thumb along the tips of Crowley's fingers. He tried to miracle away the damage but nothing happened. He pushed with his power harder and the redness faded a little, but didn't disappear. He met Crowley's eyes behind his dark glasses. "What on Earth.." he began.

Anathema was back now. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you coming in?” She said from the offending doorway.

Aziraphale could feel the sense of hurt masked by irritation coming off of Crowley before he even opened his mouth. “Your house attacked me,” Crowley snapped at her. Aziraphale gave him a look.

“What?” Anathema said. “How could my house do that?”

“There’s something there,” Crowley muttered and pulled his hand away from Aziraphale to back up and get a better look at the house. “Ah-ha,” he said, and pointed.

Aziraphale turned and followed the line of Crowley’s finger to the rusted old horseshoe nailed to the wood above the door, red and smoking from its attempt to protect Jasmine Cottage from evil.

  


* * *

  


It ended up being a bit of a matter to get the horseshoe off the doorway safely. Crowley couldn’t go anywhere near it so Aziraphale insisted on depositing him on the bench in the front garden where he sat incongruously amongst the flowers in his dark suit and dark glasses, scowling at them while icing his fingers with the bag of frozen peas that Anathema had brought him. 

The horseshoe was old but frustratingly secure, so that neither Aziraphale or Anathema could pry it off bare-handed. Aziraphale found he couldn’t miracle it away either. Perhaps an act of destruction, even by a creature of good, was considered evil enough to invoke its protection. Crowley snorted when Aziraphale shared this thought with him. 

“Perhaps you’re losing your touch, angel,” he said, but gently enough that Aziraphale didn’t get too annoyed.

Anathema dug around in the many cupboards and drawers in the cottage to look for tools but came back empty handed. When she needed anything done, she explained, she usually called the landlord who brought his own toolbox with him. Finally, Aziraphale had the idea to miracle away the screws fastening the horseshoe to the wall and it clanged down to the sidewalk below at last.

“There,” he said, satisfied, as Anathema picked it up with two fingers and tossed it to the far side of the garden, safely away. “All settled and no harm done. Come along, darling,” he called to Crowley and waited until he sauntered over with attempted nonchalance. He curled his arm around Crowley’s elbow and drew him close as they finally walked through the doorway together.

  


* * *

  


The inside of Anathema’s cottage was charmingly cluttered, in just the way Aziraphale liked, papers and esoteric books taking up available surfaces and moon charts and star charts tacked up on the walls. All complete nonsense of course, but— 

“ _It’s fascinating to see the kinds of things humans believe, don’t you think so?_ ” he had once asked Crowley. 

“ _If by fascinating you mean it’s mostly a load of bunk_ ,” Crowley had grunted over his whiskey.

Crowley at the moment was doing his best impression of a thundercloud at Anathema’s kitchen table, darkening the room with his sulky scowl. Aziraphale patted him on the arm and bustled to help Anathema get the tea tray together. 

“These cakes look scrumptious, dear!” 

And they did, small slices of rhubarb, carrot, and pumpkin cake that Anathema had picked up from the bakery in the village for their visit. There was even a Black Forest cake, which Crowley quite fancied.

He helped Anathema bring the cups, saucers and plates to the table, moving aside textbooks, tarot cards, papers, pencils, and—a theodolite that he remembered seeing the night Crowley had hit Anathema with his car. Anathema noticed his double-take and smiled a little mischievously as she sat down.

“I’ve started taking some astronomy classes at Oxford,” she said. “Ever since I destroyed Agnes’ book of prophecies, I’ve been trying to figure out what to make of my life. And so much of witch-work is about understanding star and planet movements that I realized I already had some experience in this area.”

Despite the effort to not openly cringe at the reminder that Agnes Nutter’s next book of prophecies was gone, Aziraphale couldn’t fail to notice that Crowley had perked up a little at this. “You know,” he said, seizing on the subject. “Crowley is something of an astronomer himself.”

“Hm,” Crowley said, giving him a look over his glasses and trying to sound disinterested. “Can’t say I’ve dabbled in a long time.”

“Oh,” Anathema said, smiling at him. “I had no idea. Did you go to school for it? Or learn it on your own?”

“He built some of the star systems,” Aziraphale jumped in, unable to stop himself. “Which ones were they, my dear? I believe there were some in the second southern quadrant—”

“ _Helped_ build—” Crowley said, cutting him off. “I was part of a team back then.” He sounded a little embarrassed but at least he was looking less sulky.

Anathema was looking at him with round eyes, cup frozen halfway up to her mouth. She was doing that odd thing that humans do when they are faced with the divine—fighting an inner battle between what was known and what was in front of them, an idea far greater and older than themselves. Aziraphale exchanged a quick nervous look with Crowley. They didn’t know exactly what Adam had done to the memories of the humans around him, but they knew he must have done something. Whenever they had talked to Anathema, or Adam’s friends, they seemed to recognize Aziraphale and Crowley, but could only talk in vague terms of what had happened that day, as if the details had slipped out of their brains. 

“You built them,” Anathema said slowly, shaking her head a little and blinking. “Right.” She blinked again and put her cup down. “Was it difficult?” she asked, after a pause.

“Some of it,” Crowley admitted, and Aziraphale was pleased to see him loosening up, warming to a subject that he loved.

“The tricky bit,” Crowley said, unfolding his arms to demonstrate, “is to bring the right molecules together. Gravity, you see, is the fabric that will keep it together but you have to make sure the atomic forces of the particles you’re choosing don’t repel too much and collapse the structure. You can create some neat shapes if you balance it right.”

“We’ve been looking at the stars in Camelopardalis; do you know of that one?” Anathema asked.

“Oh yeah,” Crowley nodded, leaning forward to pull a plate of shortbread biscuits toward himself. “One of my friends worked on a double-star there. The funny thing about that one is—”

Aziraphale hid a smile and cut himself a piece of his pumpkin cake, letting Crowley’s voice wash over him.

  


* * *

  


Anathema remembered at the end of their tea. “Oh!,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let me bring you what you came all the way here for.” She disappeared down the hallway toward the bedroom.

Aziraphale glanced over and caught Crowley peering at him indulgently through his dark glasses. “What?” Aziraphale asked, smiling. 

“Just looking,” Crowley purred, his voice making Aziraphale blush. Under the table, Crowley bumped his foot gently against Aziraphale’s.

 _Ah yes_. This was new (and also not new as Crowley had pointed out it had effectively been going on for 6,000 years). But it was new to Aziraphale, their intimacy having taken on newer, more physical dimensions after the End of the World. Aziraphale pressed his foot back against Crowley’s and Crowley smiled like a snake. Aziraphale felt his brush creeping down his neck. Then Anathema bustled back into the kitchen and Aziraphale jumped and pulled back out of Crowley’s space.

“Here it is,” she declared, carrying in her arms the book: Agnes Nutter’s first book of prophecies. 

Aziraphale had written a letter to Anathema several weeks ago to apologize for not returning her book immediately after they had realized they had it. He still felt rather guilty about it. With the letter, he had also enclosed the slip of paper that was Agnes’ last prophecy, thanking her for lending it to them, however unwittingly. Much to his pleasure, Anathema had written back and offered to let him keep the book permanently. 

_—I have all of her prophecies transcribed so I don’t need the book anymore. Interestingly, I found out that Agnes had written a second volume of prophecies that continued after this one. It arrived at my cottage one day, but I’ve decided after speaking with Newt that I don’t want to keep living my life according to prophecy so I’ve burned it—_

At reading this in the middle of his bookshop, Aziraphale had cried out in genuine horror. Crowley had come running out to him from the back room and it had taken several hours of wine and consolation before Aziraphale could finish the letter.

“ _I knew I didn’t like that boy_ ,” Aziraphale had said to Crowley, furious. “ _It was his idea, I’m sure of it_.”

Crowley had nodded sympathetically, wisely choosing not to respond.

He took it from her now—it was tattered and blackened but otherwise very like he remembered from the day he had spent reading it cover to cover, very soon before the end of the world. He ran his fingers over the cover with reverence.

“You’re _sure_ you don’t want it anymore?” Aziraphale asked her, unable to quite believe it.

Anathema shook her head and smiled. “Agnes served my family well but I can’t live my whole life by blindly following her instructions. I want to be able to think for myself.”

Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes over the table and saw the ghost of a smile flicker over his face. Six thousand years ago, Aziraphale probably wouldn't have understood but he thought he could understand her now. There was a particular kind of pleasure in being able to make your own choices, in choosing your own path. Angels were never meant to have free will but Aziraphale had learned differently. 

He still couldn't forgive her for burning the second book though.

“So no more fortune-telling, eh?” Crowley asked her. “It came in pretty handy, you know. For all of us.”

“Well,” Anathema said, shrugging. “There are other ways to divine the future. Like with my tarot cards.” She gathered the cards together from where they had been scattered under their various saucers. “Want to see?”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale with a smirk but then gestured to Anathema to continue. Aziraphale was well aware of what Crowley thought about humans trying to play at magical powers. Aziraphale didn’t like to admit it, but he felt similarly. The majority of the time, they really were saying nonsense, though they tried very hard, bless their hearts. But despite this, he was a little curious to see Anathema work: she certainly had some gifts—she could see auras and ley-lines, and she had some of Agnes Nutter in her.

Anathema drew three cards from the deck one by one and laid each one facedown in front of Crowley.

“I like to do a reading with just three to start because it can shine a light on a person’s past, present, and future states,” she said. “The first card represents the past. It gives us context for the rest of the cards, which represent the present and the future.”

Crowley rolled his eyes at Aziraphale over Anathema’s bowed head but she didn’t notice. They all looked down as Anathema turned over the first card and there was a small silence as the three of them peered at it. It was the Devil card.

Crowley snorted. “Wonder what that means,” he said sardonically.

Anathema looked for a second as though she was going to begin explaining the meaning, and then stopped herself. 

“Well, all right, let’s look at the next one,” she said, and flipped over the second card.

It was the Devil again. They all stared at the duplicate cards.

“Is it possible you’ve got two decks mixed together, my dear?” Aziraphale asked Anathema, feeling a prickle on the back of his neck. 

Anathema fumbled through the cards in her hand, looking confused. “I don’t have multiple copies of this deck,” she said. “But maybe there was a duplicate…” She didn’t sound convinced of this though and Crowley didn’t look up from where he was staring at the cards. With an uncertain look, Anathema reached out and turned the last card over. It was a third Devil card, upside down this time, the grotesque horned face grinning up at them.

Crowley stood up abruptly. “Think we’d best get on, angel,” he said and stomped out of the kitchen.

“Right, right,” Aziraphale said hurriedly, jumping up too. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Anathema. Do visit us in London sometime. I’ll take good care of Agnes’ book if you ever want to come see it.” He shook her hand and bowed to her to say goodbye before hurrying after Crowley.

  


* * *

  


On their way home, Crowley was so preoccupied he even forgot to exceed the speed limit. He glared at the cars on the road as he drove instead, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“Those cards were odd, weren’t they?” Aziraphale asked at one point, interrupting Crowley’s tense silence in the car.

“Has there ever been a place that was specifically barred for you?” Crowley snarled suddenly in a non-sequitur, still glaring at the road, his frustration boiling over. “A space that you _specifically_ could not enter, just because you are an angel?”

Aziraphale could tell it wasn’t an actual question, but he took the bait anyway. “Children’s birthday parties maybe. Hell definitely, but you helped me there.”

He looked sidelong at Crowley and saw him relax by a fraction, shoulders loosening.

“It’s not the same,” Crowley said quietly.

“No, it’s not,” Aziraphale agreed, and then sighed. “But it’s not as though you want to be an angel, Crowley. You would have to do good all the time and I know how much you hate that.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched in a smile. “That’s true,” he allowed.

Aziraphale reached over and pulled Crowley's left hand off the steering wheel, gentle with his scalded fingertips. He curled his fingers through Crowley's and lifted his hand to his lips, kissing the soft skin of his knuckles.

That first night, the night after the End that wasn’t, when they had practiced their plan and had contemplated the end that would come if it all went wrong, Aziraphale had only just started to understand what it meant to be on Crowley’s side. Crowley had come close to him, had placed his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, run the pad of his thumb along Aziraphale’s jaw.

“ _Angel_ ,” he had said in a whisper, his eyes open and vulnerable. 

But Aziraphale had frozen, his fears and feelings fighting within him—centuries of dogma against the reality in front of him. " _I'm not going to let you tempt me_ ," he had said, trying to sound defiant even though he had forgotten to breathe some time ago.

But Crowley had just sighed and stepped back, his hands sliding away from Aziraphale's shoulders. " _I wouldn't want you to do anything you don't want to do_ ," he had said softly. 

And Aziraphale had finally believed him. 

Maybe it was because Aziraphale had been made to serve, and Crowley had been made to build and create, that one of them had Fallen and the other hadn't. Aziraphale had trained to stand in the Ranks and had been good at it—he had grown to lead his own battalion and had been entrusted with a Sword. He hadn’t learned to think and question and dream the way Crowley had, in the time Before. Aziraphale knew his place; he had never experienced the gift of a choice, except when Crowley offered him one. To want, to choose—these were all things he had learned from humanity, and from Crowley.

“I wouldn’t have you be any other way,” he told Crowley now. It had been a lesson Aziraphale had taken a long time to learn, but he had gotten there in the end. All of Crowley’s choices, good and bad, had come together to bring him to Aziraphale and he could not help but be grateful. “And I will always be here to remove any inconvenient horseshoes,” he promised.

Crowley didn’t say anything, but he tapped his thumb against Aziraphale’s, and a smile played on his lips as he pushed the Bentley to 110 mph on the M40 toward Denham.

**Author's Note:**

> So I basically fell into this [trap](https://twitter.com/kirinhannie/status/1257782819431956481) and had to write this. The characters feel a little OOC to me here but it was my first time writing them so I hope they turned out mostly ok. I mixed a little bit of book canon with TV canon here but this loosely occurs some time after the end of the show. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!
> 
> PS: I know the story is divided up into five parts but the title is Triptych. Trust me, it bothers me too.


End file.
